To the Silenced
O, the madness of the great city, when in the evening
The stunted trees stare at the black wall,
The spirit of evil gazes from a silver mask;
Light displaces the stony night with a magnetic scourge.
O, the sunken sound of evening bells.
Whore, who in icy shudders bears a dead babe.
Raging, God's wrath lashes the forehead of the possessed,
Purple pestilence, hunger that breaks green eyes.
O, the horrible laughter of gold.
But muter humanity quietly bleeds in a dark cave,
Assembles the redeeming head out of hard metals.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt